Coming to Terms
by JosieMarieVivianWilkins
Summary: When Blaine loses his father, his mother becomes depressed, and his sister dismissive of the loss. Alone and hurting, Blaine struggles through each day and meets someone that'll be the start of a disapproving friendship. Anderberry siblings. Violence.
1. Prologue

**Blurb:**

_From the second he knew his father had died, Blaine's life had been turned upside down. Blaine watches as his life crumbles slowly. His sister practically tossing her father's death nonchalantly to the side, and his mother is depressed as ever. Blaine thinks his life is over, until he meets Kurt Hummel, the lead singer of their rival glee club, and a disapproving friendship blooms._

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><p><strong>AN: **_Okay, so this is the first collaborative piece of work the missus or I have ever tried. So, yeah, this is a collaboration between Hannah - the most awesome person, and wife I've met and had - and myself. I should explain that there is a six hour time lapse between the two of us, so we may struggle to update on a regular basis as it is sometimes hard for us to both be online at the same time and still get a decent amount of sleep and whatnot (especially when I have my GCSEs coming up, and Hannah will have homework and probably exams, I'm not overly sure about that as the American schooling system confuses me). However, we will try our hardest to update as frequently as possible._

_Guys, like just about every other person in the fandom, we don't own Glee, just overactive imaginations and a lot of feels for our ships._

_So, without further ado, we present to you Coming to Terms. We hope you enjoy it, and feel free to leave us feedback. Thanks, Jennah (that's our ship name ;3)._

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><p><strong>Prologue.<strong>

Standing there and watching his father being lowered in to the ground, in to the cold, lifeless dirt, was one of the hardest things Blaine had ever had to do. Not only was it the fact that, well, it was his father, it was also because the two of them had only recently become close. Due to his father's ignorance and fear, Blaine and Richard Anderson had exchanged very few words over the course of three years. When he came out as gay at thirteen, he had known there would be consequences, but had also hoped that his father would support him in his choices like the rest of his family had. Of course, that was not the case, and it had taken Blaine's father three years filled with only mumbled monosyllabic words when necessary, and disregarded half glances from his son before he realised that Blaine was still the same boy – well, man (his son had matured in those three years that he had treated him like a stranger, much more so than he had expected) – that he had known before.

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><p>Blaine still remembered the tears that had rimmed his father's hazel eyes, a mirrored reflection of his own eyes, as he had stood up, crossed his study and pulled him in to a hug, saying about how he was so sorry, and that he knew he didn't deserve it, but he hoped Blaine would forgive him. In a heartbeat, Blaine had agreed, tears filling his own eyes and streaking his cheeks as he cried on to his father's shoulder and accepted the loving words, numerous apologies, and hugs. He bit his lip hard as his eyes became like they had that day, only now he was not getting his father back – he was losing him. After only four months of having him back, he had lost his father again.<p>

Richard Anderson had taken a quick trip to the grocery store when he was murdered. He had only gone out to get milk and eggs, but had also wound up getting his life taken from him in a matter of minutes. He had been leisurely walking out of the small grocery store when he was suddenly taken by the arm and dragged in to the darkness of the alley. Whomever had grabbed Richard had been strong, their hands covering every inch of Richard's mouth, making him unable to yell for help. He had been shoved in to the cold, ridged brick wall, and taken aback when he saw, not one, but three teenagers in McKinley letterman jackets. McKinley High School was the school his two children attended, and he had heard them go on about the 'dumb jocks' who 'ruled the school', but he never knew they were aggressive, he simply thought his children had a skill in exaggeration.

Whilst searching the alley for a sign of help, a glint of silver had struck his eyes. A wave of panic had come over Richard as his eyes widened and his breathing stopped. The one that had the knife in his meaty hands had had an evil smile growing across his lips while the other two were watching closely as the knife inched towards Richard's stomach. Richard's eyes were stinging with the thought of dying. He had so much more of his life left. He wanted to see Rachel and Blaine graduate high school, and fall in love with someone. He wanted to become a grandparent with his wife, and spoil them rotten. Seconds before the blade had struck his stomach, he thought about Blaine. He had treated Blaine like he wasn't even his son for those three long years. He had never regretted anything more in his life than not talking to him when his son needed him the most. He was ripped from his thoughts when the bulk figure in front of him said six little words that made Richard's heart drop in to his stomach.

"This is for your faggot son!"

Before he knew it, Richard had felt a sharp pain go through his stomach and his vision blurred. The meaty jock's hand fell from Richard's mouth, and he started running along with his two accomplices. Richard's gaze left the boys and went to his stomach. He had gasped softly when he saw his shirt covered in blood. His hands touched the wound softly, making sure it was real, and he winced at the touch. His knees gave out at the sight of his own blood on his hands, and he dropped from his knees to fall on his bleeding stomach. The side of his face crashed with the cold concrete, and the sound of a crack had filled his ears and the alleyway. He saw the husky teenagers running towards the end of the alley and towards his gleaming car. Richard's vision was faltering, but he could see one of the boys doing something to his car. They had started running away when they saw the manager of the grocery store coming out, puzzled at why three boys had suddenly run away. That's when he saw him. At the end of the atramentous alley lay a man holding his stomach for his dear life. The older man ran towards the injured one and saw that he had been stabbed, and called the ambulance immediately. When the ambulance arrived, it had been too late.

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><p>As his sister stood singing at the wake, people lingered around her, watching in awe. He frowned. She was smiling. She was <em>actually<em> smiling. Why was she _smiling_? This was their father's wake. Did the fact that they had just buried their father not phase her at all? He bit his lip to hold back the tears. He knew his sister was, well, to put it lightly, a bit of an attention whore who would snatch up the spotlight in a heartbeat, but this was unbelievable. It was like their father dying didn't affect her at all, like she had just gotten over it in the few days after the discovery of their father's dead body, as if seeing his limp, pale… corpse (it still hurt to admit that he was gone, and the term 'corpse' instantly screamed _DEAD_), laying on the metal bed in the mortuary, a white sheet covering what they were told was a fatal stab wound that had hit several vital organs. It still made his stomach turn just thinking about it. What the police had told their mother later that evening had just about broken him: _"Yes, your husband's car was found in the parking lot of the grocery store. And, umm, there was some… damage done to it." _Blaine shouldn't have listened, but he needed to know. And then he saw the picture that the officer had handed to his mother. Sprayed across the front windscreen of his father's car in neon pink paint were the words _'FUCKING FAGGOT_'. Blaine had whimpered lightly in the back of his throat at this, and fallen back against the wall he had had his body pushed against as he eavesdropped in to the conversation between the police officer and his mother. He had had to bite his fist to stop himself from sobbing loudly and getting caught.

Tears slid down his cheeks as he recalled the conversation. Rachel sent him a slightly confused look before jerking her head towards where she was singing, asking him to join her. His jaw dropped slightly before he began to run, pushing his way through the crowds of people that knew his father, and wanted to show their respects (unlike his sister), and made his way up the stairs as fast as he could. When he was in his ensuite bathroom, he sobbed and stood with his hands braced on the sides of the basin, clutching it until his knuckles turned white. He was biting his lip hard, the coppery flavour of blood beginning to hit his taste buds. A white, tear-streaked face stared back at Blaine as he looked in the mirror. It was like he wasn't even seeing his own reflection. Usually, he would see tan skin and bright, glistening eyes when he sought out his reflection. A heavy sob wracked through his body as Blaine realised that the only thing about him that resembled his father no longer held the same appeal. His eyes were now dull and glassy, not welcoming at all; they now played host to tall, concrete walls that homed a scared little boy, keeping him out of view, out of sight of the world's inhabitants. The tears continued to fall, sliding down Blaine's cheeks and falling from his chin in to the sink.

Tears pooled in Blaine's eyes as the words flashed in his head constantly.

_FUCKING FAGGOT!_

The words never left him. Sure, he had had them thrown at him before, but he was a tolerant person and could handle shallow people and their slurs, but this one hurt the most. This one had left a constant ache in his heart because… it had hurt his dad. Why did it have to hurt his father? Why could it not hurt _him _physically? The physical pain he could handle, it was just the emotional pain that he couldn't. It was eating him up inside, but it was no less than what he deserved. He had to endure this pain, for his father; had to be strong, for his mother and sister.

The words would never leave him. They itched beneath his skin. He stared at the rivulets that ran down his arm through angry tears. No, they would never leave him, he had made sure of that.

_FUCKING FAGGOT!_


	2. Chapter One

**A/N: **_So, guys, we have chapter one for you. We hope you enjoyed the prologue, and let us know what you thought about this chapter._

_So, sorry if the time between our updates was too long for some people's liking, but as I explained, six hour time differences mean that I have to stay up late or Hannah has to leave school early. Well, anyways, here it is._

We don't own Glee, yada, yada, yada. Enjoy.

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><p><strong>Chapter One.<strong>

Ever since the funeral, the Anderson family had been quiet: Barbra Anderson hadn't gone to work as of lately due of her recent breakdown during a conference meeting; Rachel mostly sang around the house, trying to cheer everyone up, but she wasn't fooling Blaine. Blaine had learned, over the years of being her brother, that she would sing to cover up her true emotions. Behind that smile lay a broken frown, a frown filled with sorrow and sadness. Blaine hadn't been seen around the house much after the funeral. He was mostly in his room, thinking. Thinking about numerous things all at once. Even when he was laying still, watching the ceiling fan orbit around the unlit light bulb, his mind was jumbled by all of his thoughts. The one thing he couldn't stop thinking about was his dad. Blaine was torn up the most about Richard's death, more than his mother herself. The reason why was because Blaine knew that his father's death was his fault. As much as everyone said that he wasn't to blame for his father's death, he knew it was because of him.

Now, Blaine wasn't the most popular kid in school. Hell, he wore bow ties and suspenders, so, of course, he was going to be bullied. He didn't just get bullied because of his horrendous wardrobe; it was because of his sexuality. Even before Blaine himself knew he was gay, he was teased by the jocks and the popular people. Getting tossed in to the school's dumpsters, and being thrown in to lockers were daily occurrences for Blaine. And since Blaine was a part of the Glee club, slushies were a normal thing, too, at McKinley. Since Glee club was the bottom of the food chain, they got treated like scum. Despite all the bullying the club took, they stayed in it, because Glee to them was like the sky to a bird – it was their sanctuary. The place where they were accepted for who they were and not judged for being different. Blaine loved Glee club, he felt safe there, surrounded by his best friends in the whole world. Blaine used his time in Glee club to sing his heart out. At his most horrible times, Blaine would sing a song, and it would make him feel better inside. Not now. He couldn't just sing a happy song to cover up his mourning for his father. He wasn't Rachel.

Since the breakdown at the funeral, Blaine hadn't cried. Not once. It wasn't like he didn't feel like it, it was because he couldn't. He believed his father didn't want his tears. Him crying about his dead dad was pointless, because it was his fault in the first place. Blaine shouldn't cry, he didn't deserve to cry; Blaine should be dead. He should be the one that was six feet under, not his innocent father. Not his father who was a loyal man; a man who would do anything to please his family. He wasn't a man who should have been dragged in to an alley and murdered. It should have been Blaine. And Blaine's tears didn't mean a thing to his dad; they didn't change anything, they were just salty droplets of liquid that shouldn't be wasted on something he could have stopped.

Yes, Blaine thought he could have stopped his dad's death. He could have changed the way of displaying it. He could have not had _Wicked _playbills pinned in his locker throughout freshman year, or have dressed crazily when they did Lady Gaga in Glee. All of these little things drove those guys to killing his father. Those little things could've saved his dad from dying, but Blaine selfishly did them anyway, not thinking of the consequences.

_Blaine killed his father._

Blaine was torn away from his thoughts when someone knocked on his door. Guessing it was Rachel, Blaine replied to the knock, "What?" At his voice, the door cracked open, revealing Rachel with a stack of music sheets. Blaine propped himself up on his elbows to see her better.

"Hey, I was wondering if you could help me with song selections for Sectionals next week." Rachel asked with her fake smile spreading across her face.

"I don't feel like it." Blaine said glumly as he plopped his head back on the pillows.

"Why not? We do it every year for competitions! It'll be fun! We could even see if we can find a song that you and I could sing together as a duet. Knowing that we're two of the best singers in the club, we would be able to beat any of the tea-"

"RACHEL, SHUT UP!" Blaine suddenly yelled, getting fed up with Rachel's obliviousness. Rachel flinched at the noise and stared at Blaine. "Our dad _just died_, and all you can think about is what we're going to sing at a stupid competition! You're being so selfish and heartless! You don't even care that our dad is dead. You just skip around this empty house singing songs, and you think that they're going to lift our spirits, but news flash, Rach, they aren't! You can act like nothing happened, but it's not going to change the fact that he's dead, and he won't ever be with us again!"

Blaine was panting now, out of breath from all of the yelling he had just done. Rachel looked broken. Her eyes were sad and tear-filled. Her fake smile was long gone, replaced with a look that was hiding the whole time. She launched forward in to her big brother's arms and started crying. Blaine was shocked at first, then gently hugged Rachel and let her cry on his broad shoulders.

"I just... miss him... so much." Rachel said in between hiccups as she looked up at her brother, her red eyes filling his vision.

"Me too." Blaine whispered quietly, just loud enough so Rachel could hear him.

She sighed as she laid her head on Blaine's shoulder and began to close her eyes. He looked down at his little sister and kissed the top of her head. Sure, she could be a pain, but she was a good person. She was the person he first came out to, and she was always there for him. Blaine finally turned his still-lit lamp off and closed his eyes, soon falling to sleep. But just because he was asleep, didn't mean his problems would leave him.

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><p>The first thing Blaine awoke to was a muffled sobbing. He pushed himself up and rubbed his hands over his eyes, stretching his arms high above his head after. Once he had woken himself up a little, he looked around to find the source of the sobbing, and he found it when he saw his mother sitting at the chair that sat in front of his messy desk. Groaning, he looked to his mother and grumbled "Mom, get out!", falling back on to his pillow. When he heard no signs of her moving, just her cries echoing around his room, he sighed and flung himself out of bed, storming towards his door, closing it behind him sharply. He traipsed down the stairs in a morning haze, sighing as the sound of Rachel singing loudly in her bathroom hit him. When he got in to the kitchen, Blaine heard the hammering of feet sprinting down the stairs at full pace. Honestly, he was surprised that he didn't hear the thump of a person falling flat on their face at the bottom of the stairs. Wanting to get rid of the taste of his morning breath, Blaine went to the fridge and pulled out a carton of orange juice, taking a few swigs from it before returning it to the place he had found it.<p>

"Blaine Derrick Anderson, what is _wrong _with you?" His mother's piercing voice made him jump a little.

Blaine rolled his eyes as he said "What now?", his voice flat and lacking interest.

"Why would you do that? Why would you do that to your own father?" Blaine flinched a little at her words, but kept his face void of any emotion, "How could you be so selfish? He was your father, Blaine, your _father_!" Barbara Anderson stepped out of the kitchen doorway and towards her son, "It's all your fault.", she said, her voice barely audible.

"Don't you think I know that?" Blaine asked, his voice low and hoarse.

"Why couldn't you stop it?"

He blinked away the tears and said "I don't know. I don't know, Mom! I ask myself that every day! Every day I ask myself why I couldn't stop my dad dying, or, better yet, why they didn't kill me instead!" Blaine was blinking back the tears furiously, "Every. Single. Day. And you know what, I don't even get an answer; I just get the fact that he's dead, and that I did it! _My dad died because of ME!_"

Barbara suddenly went towards her son, hammering her hands on his chest and shouting "IT'S YOUR FAULT! IT'S ALL YOUR FAULT, YOU STUPID, STUPID CHILD! YOU DON'T EVEN KNOW WHAT YOU'VE DONE!"

Not even attempting to stop her, Blaine accepted the hits from his mother, taking them like a child would take a cookie. He didn't even try to grab her hands when one of them hit him in the face. The tears silently slid down his cheeks as he let his mother hit him continuously, her words etching themselves in his brain as she repeated them with each blow. Blaine exhaled as his left wrist itched painfully.

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><p>Blaine walked through the doors of McKinley High School. It had been exactly three weeks since his father had been murdered, and two since he had been to school. He hadn't been able to go in to school, he just couldn't will himself to go there only to be reminded of the thing that had killed his father. His wrist itched uncomfortably as he tugged the sleeve of his sweater down even more, holding the cuff of it tightly in his sweating palm.<p>

As he walked down the halls, he felt like everyone was staring at him, like he was the main exhibition (he supposed it had something to do with Rachel; she had gone back to school just a day after their father's funeral, and had probably told the Glee club, which meant it would have spread throughout the surrounding cliques one way or another), and everyone was judging him. Staring down at his feet, he awaited the force of a jock's shoulder barging him in to the lockers. When Blaine found himself standing in his Spanish classroom unscathed, he frowned slightly. And he hadn't been slushied either, nor had he heard any slurs or insults being thrown in his direction. With a sigh, he made his way to the seat farthest away from Mister Schuester's desk, and sat down, staring at his desk for the ten minutes until school officially started.

"Hey, dude, how… how're you doin'?"

Blaine looked up to see Puck sitting down in the desk beside him, sending him a soft, concerned smile. He grunted out an "'M fine.", before returning to the staring contest he was having with his desk.

"Listen, Blaine, I know it's hard losing your dad – I get that, dude – but I just thought I'd tell you that, well, we're all here for you, and we wanna' help you in any way we can." He patted Blaine on the back before turning to face the front of the classroom.

Blaine exhaled and tightened his grip on his cuff. _Breathe, Blaine, just breathe. You can do this, you'll be fine_, he thought as he muttered out a 'thanks,' not looking up from his desk.

"_¡Es muy bueno verte, _Blaine!" Mister Schuester said from the front of his the class, smiling brightly a him. Blaine raised his eyebrows in acknowledgement to Mister Schuester. "_¿Cómo estas?_" Mister Schuester's voice was softer, full of far too much sympathy for Blaine's liking this time.

Blaine sighed and stood up, walking towards the classroom door, ignoring Mister Schuester's babbling. Just before he walked out, he turned in the doorway, looked directly at Mister Schuester and said "_¡Que te jodan!_" a phrase that Santana had taught him (she smiled proudly at him from her seat that was by the door, looking at him with concerned eyes at the same time), and continued his journey out of the classroom, walking towards the guys' bathroom. He kicked several lockers on the way, raging with himself in his head about how he didn't need anybody's pity. And it was true, he didn't.

When he got to the guys' bathroom, he locked himself in the farthest cubicle, leaning against the wall and sliding down so that he was sitting with his knees against his chest. Tears blurred his vision. He didn't need people's sympathy, nor did he need people reminding him that something had happened that would put him in a state of not being okay. Sighing, he slid up his sweater sleeve. What greeted him was something that always made him feel better: scars. The words '_FUCKING FAGGOT'_, along with lots of old scabs and new scars that looked like the rungs of a ladder. They made him feel better because he felt like he was getting an ounce of what his father had received, like they were his punishment for what happened to his father. They acted like punishment because they reminded him every day that it was his fault his father had died, and that they had been done as a result of that. He stared at them, inhaling and exhaling slowly as he calmed himself down, letting the tears slowly fall.

"Blaine?"

Blaine was shocked when he heard a familiar voice call out to him a few minutes later, more specifically because it was Santana's voice he was hearing (but also because he wasn't being addressed with a '_yo, hobbit'_). He didn't answer, just sat letting the tears slide down his cheeks.

"Blaine, I know you're in the last stall. Please, let me in." When she didn't get an answer, she went towards said cubicle and sat down on the opposite side of it, putting her hand under the door and on top of Blaine's that was resting on the floor. She squeezed his hand lightly.

Blaine pulled his hand away (he heard Santana sigh slightly), and stood to open the door. When the door was open, he saw that Santana was standing, her arms open and welcoming him in to a familiar hug. She walked towards him, and a new wave of tears began to fall as she pulled him in to her arms, holding him tightly and trying to calm him down as his breathing became less even.

He relaxed in to her hold. With Santana he felt safe, he felt like he could be himself, because with Santana there were no secrets; Santana was his confidant. Santana was the one person he had been completely honest with after his father's death, she had been so sympathetic and caring after his father's death (which had shocked him, honestly, but he always had a feeling that Santana was a secret softie), and had said that she had some idea of how he felt, what with having her father leave her and her mother when she was seven, and wanted to help him if she could. At first, he had rejected the help, saying that he was coping fine, but, one day soon after his father's death, she had come over to Blaine's home, and she had found him in the bathroom, sitting in the shower fully clothed, with blood dripping from his wrist and on to the floor of the shower, a razor blade sitting beside him near the drain hole, and tears running down his face. She hadn't asked what had happened; she had just cleaned him up, and been his shoulder to cry on. After that, she had visited the house every day after school, trying to help Blaine through his stage of bereavement, and telling him every time that she would always be there for him, and would listen to him if he wanted to talk. Slowly, he had opened up, explaining how he felt and why he was doing what he was – with a little prompting, of course. A beautiful friendship blossomed from there, the two finding out on Santana's evening visits that they weren't so different; like his father had treated him like a different person when he came out, Santana's grandmother had done the same. There were other things that the two shared likenesses for, of course, but these two were painful things that they could relate on.

When Blaine had finally calmed down, the bell for second period had run, and the two were locked in the end stall, with Blaine resting his head on Santana's shoulder as she held his hand, telling him that the first few days would be hard, and that a select few imbeciles – her words, not his – would not be very sensitive, and would try to separate Blaine from the others, metaphorically speaking, as much as they possibly could, even if it was unintentional. He had nodded with a light sigh, telling her that she was one of the best friend's he had ever had, and that he loved her (in the way that friends do love each other, like siblings, as opposed to lovers). She had nodded, and said that he was like a brother to her, and that she also loved him as well. With another sigh, Blaine stood up, extending a hand to Santana, pulling her to her feet when she took his outstretched hand.

"Come on, hobbit, let's get to class." Santana said to him, a warm smile on her face as she put a hand on his upper arm when the two of them stepped out of the bathroom and in to the empty hallway.

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><p>"<em>It's good to have you back, Blaine.<em>" From the second he hesitantly stepped in to glee club after school, that's all he heard from the other eleven members. It annoyed him slightly, everyone's sympathy for him, but he knew that they were trying their best.

When Mr. Schuester came in to the choir room, late as usual, he seemed to have forgotten Blaine's blow-up during Spanish class, or he didn't deem to bring it up. "Okay, I have an announcement to make," Mr. Schuester said loudly as he was digging through his messenger bag to pull out a folded paper. This seemed to get everyone's attention. "I have the list of our competition for Sectionals next week." He unfolded the paper and started to read off it, "First we have the a cappella choir from the all boys private school in Westerville, The Dalton Academy Warblers. The other team-"

There had been more said and more discussed, but Blaine zoned out immediately, especially when Rachel started to talk, back to her usual self, ranting about what songs she should sing. He just wanted to leave. It wasn't that he hated Glee or anything, it was that it just suddenly seemed… unimportant. How could he just go to a place and sing, and suddenly forget all that had happened for the last three weeks? It seemed too simple to Blaine. Way too easy. He wished he could sing the pain away, but it obviously didn't work like that. He looked across the room at Rachel who was sitting by her awkwardly tall jock boyfriend, Finn. He felt something in his stomach coil up. _How could she act normal as if nothing is wrong in the world? _He envied Rachel. She had it easy, being able to cover herself from her _actual _self. Blaine couldn't do that. As hard as he tried, he couldn't. Simple as that. Blaine looked away from Rachel and started listening to Mr. Schuester again, trying hard to focus.

"—Tina will be first up singing _The A Team_; Rachel on lead for _Once_; and the boys singing and harmonising with _Rooftops_. Is this good with everyone?" The twelve teenagers nodded accordingly. "Okay, we'll start practising tomorrow after school and during lunch period," A few of the kids groaned, to Mr. Schuester's surprise, "Look, guys, we only have five days to practice, four of those are school days – we have to get practising if we want to win." Everyone sighed and started to leave the choir room to go home.

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><p>"Blaine, I'm gonna' get a ride from Finn, okay?" Rachel said as she was walking past her big brother on the way out of the school.<p>

Blaine just nodded hazily and continued walking towards the double doors leading to the parking lot. He lugged towards his car, not a single drop of energy left in his body, not that there was any to start with. Finally, he slid in to his car, put his bag in the passenger seat, and started it. Feeling the need to look at his atrocious hair he kept bottled up with a tub of gel, Blaine mindlessly pulled down the visor to fix his hair. A square piece of paper fell free from being wedged in the visor and floated towards Blaine's foot hovering over the accelerator. Blaine bent over and picked up the – photo, it seemed – and turned it over so the white wasn't showing, except a picture that looked way too familiar to Blaine. He felt his eyes burn suddenly then shut them tightly, he _wasn't _going to cry. He felt the picture crush as he fisted his hand and the edges of the picture poking his palm. He let the photo drop from his hand to the console between the passenger and driver seat. He turned the ignition, forgetting that the car had already been started, making the car let out a horrible sound. Backing out of the parking lot, Blaine drove his way home, feeling nostalgic for the entirety of the journey. He didn't realise until five minutes later that his hands were clenched on the steering wheel, turning his knuckles pale white, he shook it off, but loosened his grip slightly.

He finally parked his car in the driveway in front of the Anderson residence, and hurriedly got out of the car, leaving behind a smiling Richard Anderson sitting on the console, crumbled up in a frame of a picture, and worst of all, useless.


	3. Chapter Two

**A/N:** _So, guys, yeah... everyone loves a good almost-two-year hiatus. And to be honest, the truth is that Hannah and I lost touch. I had exams and so did she, and we just slowly stopped talking. However, if I'm right, she may still have this under a reading alert or something, so she may see that I suddenly discovered this when transferring everything from my old computer to a portable harddrive and suddenly felt the urge to write. So, this is me celebrating the end of my A2 exams (the grades which decided whether I go to university or not), exams by indulging in some writing, something which I haven't done for a hella' long time. _

_So, most of this chapter was written by Hannah and I (it just needed a smidge putting on to the ending, which is what I'm doing now), so we hope you enjoy it._

_Give us a shout about what you thought, spread the story if you like it, and, once again, please enjoy it._

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><p><strong>Chapter Two.<strong>

Blaine looked at himself in the mirror of his bathroom, and even though he had just woken up, he could still see that he was a good-for-nothing waste of space. He could not even look in the mirror without feeling sick with himself. Blaine knew he was supposed to be getting ready for Sectionals, which would take place in a couple of hours, but his mind was drifting away from the thought of competition. Instead, his mind was wandering to the blade that sat on the bathroom counter in front of him. The light shining off of it so perfectly that it seemed unreal. His hand reached out in front of him and touched the blade. It shocked him with its coldness, but he picked it up anyway. His hand held the only thing that helped him, or so he thought helped him in the slightest. He drew the blade closer and closer to his wrist. Finally, he had the blade touching his skin. About to cut, he pressed it down, but he dropped it when he heard the doorknob jiggle slightly. The blade hit the inside of the sink with a __ping __that was practically inaudible. He turned around quickly, right when Rachel burst in to her brother's bathroom. She looked at him and gasped. He __knew __he was caught. Why did he have to be so careless? He should have been more careful trying to cut in the bathroom that had a faulty lock on the door. Then he noticed Rachel was not looking at his bare wrists which had faint, pink scars, but at his pyjamas that he had worn to bed the previous night.

"Blaine, I told you to get dressed! You didn't even bother trying to take a shower!" She exclaimed whilst frantically trying to get his outfit for Sectionals together that lay on the cold bathroom floor. He stood with his back towards the sink, without saying any words, he just watched as she ran around the bathroom while the click of her high heel shoes that matched her dress echoed in the tension-filled silence.

As she moved throughout the bathroom, he felt as if she was invading his privacy. He felt even 0more intruded when she was prodding through his drawers. Each and every time she opened something, his stomach would clench possessively. She was looking through his hair products on his shelves when she accidentally shoved her hand into a tub of gel that had its lid screwed off. When she pulled it out, her hand was covered in greenish-blue gel that was sticky as hell - it has to be to tame his borderline afro of a mane. Rachel looked at her hand in disgust and cursed under her breath. Blaine saw that she was looking for a towel, but when she couldn't find one, she started walking over from the opposite side of the bathroom towards the sink. She was about to discover Blaine's only escape from his horrible life. Blaine sprang forward from where he was leaning on the counter, and started blocking Rachel from using the sink.

"Rachel, I think I can get ready without your help," He said sombrely as he started to push her out the door.

"But-"

Rachel was cut off as Blaine lightly shoved her out of the door and shut it with enough force to somehow tell her to back off. Blaine could hear her heels click down the hallway and then another door slam.

Blaine sighed and started getting dressed in his red button-up shirt with his black slacks that loosely fit his waist. He was about to leave the bathroom, but walked back over to the sink and stared at the blade that lay near the drain. He picked it up and slid it into his pocket carefully, saving it for later.

"__Angels to fly  
>To fly, fly<br>Angels to fly, to fly, to fly  
>Angels to die.<em>_" Tina's voice filled the hall, and cheers erupted from the audience before the lights dimmed momentarily.

And those few seconds of near-darkness concealed Blaine's crumpled face that held hurt, guilt, and anger (aimed at himself). Then the spotlight fell on Rachel as the rest of them stood at the back, and she began to sing, her voice strong. A person would never be able to tell she was hurting, never be able to tell her dad had died, never be able to tell that she was a girl who had all but broken down in her big brother's arms a few weeks ago. No, Rachel was strong enough to hold up a good façade. Unlike him.

Rachel's song was applauded, and she blinked away the tears before retreating to the back of the stage with the rest of the girls as the guys got in to a line. The song had been choreographed as simply as possible – there was none! Mister Schuester had decided that, much like the other songs, little or no choreography was needed, and so that was how the song went. Soon, the spotlight was on full-beam on Finn, and the taller boy was singing  
>"<em>W<em>__hen our lives are done  
>Will we say, we've had our fun.<em>_"

Blaine took a deep breath, and he was soon belting out all the correct notes,  
>"<em><em>Will we make a mark this time<br>Will we always say we tried.__"

"__We're standing on the rooftops  
>Everybody scream your <em>__**_**heart **_**___out  
>Standing on the rooftops<br>Everybody scream your ___**_**heart **_**___out.__" As Puck sang, Blaine tried not to look at him, knowing he would break, he just harmonised along with the rest of the group on the word 'heart'. It was what he knew he would do whenever he heard any of the New Directions sing. He didn't want to look at the people that he knew would send him a look of hurt, of sorrow – a look full of pity. If he looked at them, Blaine was sure he would break down at that moment; whereas looking at the audience, he saw a pool of people that knew nothing of his situation. Sure, most of them had read it in the papers, but next to none of them would know that he was Blaine Anderson, the boy whose dad had died. The boy whose dad had been killed by homophobic pricks. The boy whose dad was dead because of him. No, on that stage, at that moment, he was just the guy that sang with a bunch of other kids, he was just blending in.

"__Standing on the rooftops  
>Everybody scream your <em>__**_**heart**_**__****___out  
><em>__**_This is all we got now_**___  
><em>__**_Everybody scream your heart out._**_" Mike sang the words, his voice strong and full of confidence, the rest of the guys harmonising with him at their points. It was quite obvious that he had had singing lessons. It was clear that he had improved.

Blaine only hoped that, some day, he would be able to improve in himself.

Artie was then revealed by the spotlight, and he was singing strongly  
>"<em><em>All the love I've met<br>I have no regrets  
>If it all ends now, I'm set.<em>_"

"__Will we ___**_**make a mark**_**_______this time  
>Will we <em>__**_**always say**_**__****___we tried.__" Sam lead the guys, his voice blurring in with the others' as they harmonised.

And then Puck was singing again and Blaine was joining the others in a harmony  
>"<em><em>We're standing on the rooftops<br>Everybody scream your ___**_**heart **_**___out  
>Standing on the rooftops<br>Everybody scream your ___**_**heart **_**___out.__"

Mike then took main parts, the other guys harmonising  
>"<em><em>Standing on the rooftops<br>Everybody scream your ___**_**heart**_**__****___out  
><em>__**_**This is all we got now**_**___**  
><strong>___**_**Everybody scream your heart out.**_**_"

"__Standing on the rooftops__" Finn sang, the others taking the next line as he stayed silent

"_**_**Wait until the bombs dro**_**__**_p_**_"

"_T___his is all we got now__" And then Finn was on his own before all but him sang again.

"_**_**Scream until your heart stops.**_**_"

Blaine took another deep breath, and looked up from the floor to the crowd, his voice strong as he sang, doing like Finn had before and taking a line before the rest minus him sang the next,  
>"<em><em>Never gonna regret<em>_"

"_**_**Watching every sunset**_**_"

"__We'll listen to your heartbeat__"

"_**_**All the love that we found.**_**_"

This pattern was repeated again with Puck taking the solo lines,  
>"<em><em>Standing on the rooftops<em>_"

"_**_**Wait until the bombs drop**_**_"

"__This is all we got no___w_"

"_**_**Scream until your heart stops.**_**_"

For the last time, the pattern was redone with Mike leading the male New Directions,  
>"<em><em>Never gonna regret<em>_"

"_**_**Watching every sunset**_**_"

"__We'll listen to your heartbeat__"

"_**_**All the love that we found.**_**_"

And then Blaine was singing again, screaming out the words like they had been written to be done so, the others joining him on the word 'heart', tears welling at the corners of his eyes,  
>"<em><em>Scream your <em>__**_**heart**_**__****___out  
>Scream your <em>__**_**heart **_**___out  
>Scream your <em>__**_**heart **_**___out  
>Scream your…<em>_"

"__Standing on the rooftops  
>Everybody scream your <em>__**_**heart**_**__****___out  
>Standing on the rooftops<br>Everybody scream your ____**heart **____out.__" Sam took the last whole chorus before all of the guys sang the next two lines.

"_**_**Standing on the rooftops  
>Everybody scream your heart out<strong>_**_"

"__This is all we got now  
>Everybody scream your...<em>_" As Blaine lightly sang these last two lines, he felt a single tear fall, and then he bowed his head. As the crowd stood up and cheered, Blaine's heart thumped painfully. This year, his father had said he was going to come and see him at Sectionals. He had promised his son that he would come, and he would clap and cheer for his children, and he may end up shedding a tear or two. But now he couldn't. Wouldn't. Ever. The moment the curtain fell, Blaine vacated the stage as quickly as he could, ignoring calls from his friends, and he was running to the bathroom as soon as he was out of their sight.

Once in the bathroom, Blaine went to the cubicle farthest away from the entrance, locking the door and sitting on the lid of the toilet. His breaths rattled from his lungs, his heart banging hard against his ribcage as he dug his hand in to his pants pocket, seeking his release. He winced as he found what he sought, the blade slicing his finger tip as he scrabbled about for it. As he held the blade against his wrist, he stopped breathing, staring at the door as he thought. He knew he shouldn't do this, knew he should try to stop. For his mom. For Rachel. For himself. He should… but he couldn't. As much as he tried he could never bring himself not do it, not do the thing that gave him release. Call it selfish, but he __needed __this. __This__, cutting himself, this was his escape, this was the thing that let him ignore all of the pity glances, all of the gay-bashings he endured, all of the break-downs his mother had and aimed at him – everything that wasn't particularly pleasant about his life. No, he couldn't stop this.

As the blade cut in to his flesh and set the blood free, Blaine let out a strangled breath, feeling his body relax a little. Sighing at the release he felt, he did it again in the same place on his wrist, feeling earlier's unshed tears falling down his cheeks. As he cut himself, he felt things begin to blur. This was familiar. He recognised this, and he welcomed it. This wave of confusion and blackness always brought him close to floating – almost. He could feel it, he was so close. As it came, he put his fingers out as if trying to touch it, to welcome it, and confirm that, yes, it was okay for it to take him over, to pull him in to its grasp. Blaine fell forward, slipping off of the toilet seat and on to the tiled floor, his head hitting it with a dull __thud __that would hurt later on (but he didn't know that due to his being unconscious; all he knew was what his mind conjured while it hid in the darkness), and the blade falling to the floor where his hip soon landed, the material of his pants being torn slightly.

_"Hello? Are you okay in there?!"_

Blaine did not hear these words, only the light musings of his unconscious mind that occupied him in his stillness. As clouds passed him by, he smiled happily, feeling light and airy. Every time he was here, he always seemed to have a habit of looking at his arms. Looking at him arms and seeing how they were unmarred, and realising that there was nothing to make him unhappy where he was. Everything was fine here. Of course, he had no idea where __Here __was. It just seemed to be open space.

__BANG!__

His whole world shook.

__BANG!__

He started falling, like his engine had suddenly broken.

__BANG!__

He landed with a thump.

_"Oh, crap!"_

As the light tried to break in to his world, he tried for as long as he could to keep his eyes closed, to keep away from everything that he tried to get away from.

_"Hello?"_

His world began to shake. It was like enduring an earthquake.

And then there was light. Everywhere. It was blinding.

Blinking blearily, Blaine looked around him, seeing nothing. Raising a hand to shield his eyes from the blinding light above him, he blinked a few more times. When he was able to see, he saw a person above him. They let out a sigh of relief.

"What hap-" The person paused. "Oh."

Blaine furrowed his brow. What were they talking about? Whoever they were, they were, well… wow. Gorgeous chestnut brown hair that was perfectly coiffed, glistening blue-grey eyes, that held his own. Strong jaw line, perfect cheekbones. And then it came to him – he was in Lima. The population of out gays in Lima consisted of him alone.

"Are you okay?" Before Blaine could answer, the guy above him muttered "No, of course you're not, you were passed out on the floor. No, you're not okay. You've cut yourself, your head's bruised, and you're anything but okay. Stupid question, Kurt, stupid question."

Kurt. Hmm… Blaine liked it.

Processing what the guy – Kurt – had just said, Blaine self-consciously lowered his hand. He only now realised that he was half sitting and half laying with his head in Kurt's lap. Quickly, he sat up, feeling a wave of dizziness wash over him. "Sorry. I… I'm sorry. Yeah, I… I'm really sorry." Blaine then got to his feet (in that confined space where there was two of them, he would never know how), and was walking out of the cubicle and towards the wash basin, turning on the hot tap and putting his wrist under the faucet. He winced slightly at the sting as the blood was washed away.

"What's your name?"

Kurt talking to him made Blaine jump. He didn't know Kurt had gotten up, though did he really expect him to just sit on a bathroom floor? "Urm, I'm… I'm Blaine." He murmured, stepping in to the cubicle again to go and retrieve the blade from the floor, pulling some tissue from the dispenser first to make it seem as though that was all he was doing.

_Where was it?_

"Blaine, are you looking for something?" He heard from over his shoulder.

Blaine turned to see Kurt leaning against the cubicle door with the blade in his hand, the light glinting off of it where there was no blood. He went to take it from Kurt, about to thank him for it.

The taller boy shook his head, snatching the blade back towards his body. "Blaine, you can't… you can't do that to yourself. It's not good for you, and it isn't actually helping you like you think it is. It's giving you false pretences of an escape, all it's really doing is setting you on the road to the hospital."

Blaine tugged on the sleeve of his dress shirt, feeling the dampness of it from the blood that it had absorbed. He looked Kurt in the eye, anger filling him as he said "You don't know what you're talking about! You don't know me! Don't try and tell me how to deal with crap, just… don't! Look, just give me it so I can leave." Blaine put his hand out towards Kurt, who only shook his head and kept the blade close to his body. Blaine sighed, "Please."

"No."

"What? Why?!" Blaine snapped.

"I'm not going to give you something to hurt yourself with." He then threw the blade over Blaine's shoulder, and they both heard the __ping __as it fell in to the toilet. Kurt sighed, "Look, I know you say I don't know, but if you want to talk about it I'll listen. I know I don't really even know who you are, but I can see that you need somebody to talk to, and I'll help if you want me to." He then pulled a phone from his pants pocket and began to type on it. The phone was familiar – the phone was Blaine's! "It slid out under the door, I'm guessing from when you fell, that's what got my attention." He then handed Blaine his phone. "I put my number in, so just, like, call me if you want to – or need to – talk, okay? Don't hesitate, okay? Please, don't." Kurt turned to leave, pausing. He turned and said "And I'd get some ice on your head, and dress your wrist after putting some antiseptic on it." And then Kurt left, seeing that Blaine was well, and knowing that the results for the competition were to be called in a few minutes.

When Kurt had left, Blaine just stared after him, slightly dumbfounded. Grabbing some tissue from the stall, Blaine quickly wrapped it around his wrist a few times to steady the flow of bloody before he pulled his shirt sleeve down, straightened himself out, and left the bathroom in time to hear the voice-over from the speakers saying "If all competing choir clubs will make their way to the stage, we're about to announce the winner of this year's Sectional competition." Blaine walked towards the stage, feeling a little light-headed, and joined his team mates, ignoring their questions of where he had been, leading them on to the stage along with the other two groups (The Warblers and The Troubletones). The bright lights shone down on them all. As Blaine looked around at the groups they had sung against, he spotted the familiar chestnut-coloured coif and noticed Kurt standing with The Warblers. Of course, how had he _not _noticed the signature blazer that the very dapper alumni of the academy wore. Everything slowly began to turn in to a fuzzing sound as the presenter of the show's voice began to fill the hall, the crowd's clapping and cheering one intense hum as Blaine suddenly felt the consequences of his earlier actions begin to take their toll. Soon, Blaine was struggling to keep his eyes open, and before he knew it, he was falling. The last thing he remembered was hitting his head again and the pain feeling twice as intense as it had earlier in the bathroom.

Blaine awoke to find himself on one of the couches in the green room The New Directions had been situated in, his team surrounding him, along with that familiar hairstyle again. "Wha-?" He managed to croak out, sliding himself up on his elbow before Rachel cut him off sharply.

"What are you doing, Blaine? Why have you been so stupid? It doesn't make any sense. Why are you trying to ruin everything?"

His heart clenched. He had been found out. He looked at his sister with eyes that could not decided between being intensely angry, or being very sincere and pleading.

"I mean, come _on_, he's the enemy, Blaine! You may as well just have croaked during our first song. And even then we probably would have had a better cha-"

"Rachel, I think you're forgetting the fact that we came tied first with The Warblers. Now, come on, give your brother a rest. That's the second time he's hit his head today. You're just lucky that 'the enemy' was there to help the first time round." Mister Schuester put in, stopping Rachel's rant, allowing Blaine to relax his eyes.

_So... she hadn't found out?_

Before he knew it, Blaine was standing up and leaving the green room, making his way anywhere, ignoring the protests and calls from his teammates. He soon found himself running, running harder than he had in a long time, just wanting to get away from them. Eventually, he ended up coming to a stop, and was letting himself fall to the floor to sit against the brick wall behind him. He didn't have a clue where he was, but it didn't matter, and maybe it meant that nobody else knew where he was. And that was what he wanted. Nowadays, he craved isolation: the silence, the ability to breathe and think. Blaine then allowed himself to cry for what felt like the far-too-many-eth time that day. Blaine wanted to be strong and not have to break down or cut, but he couldn't do anything else. He was able to put it all behind him. Blaine's downfall was that he felt too much. He could not half-do anything when it came to his feelings, he was an all-or-nothing kind of guy when it came to them. The word his mother liked to use was _passionate_.

"Hey," a soft voice said. He breathed a sigh of relief: it wasn't his sister. Blaine looked up to see the first Warbler he had ever met. "Mind if I join you?"

"Ground's free," Blaine mumbled out, trying to scrub the tears away from his eyes and willing them to stop falling at the same time.

He felt a hand on his arm, which he initially flinched at, and Kurt said gently "You don't need to hide the fact that you're crying. I get it. With a sister like that, I can understand." Blaine was only able to look at Kurt through bleary eyes, his mouth unable to function. "And don't worry, I covered for you. I assumed nobody knew, so I told them that I heard you pass out when I was in the bathroom and that you hit your head pretty hard and so that was probably why you passed out on stage. Nobody knows. Your secret is still safe."

Blaine looked away from Kurt, staring down at the concrete before him as he whispered "Thanks," his stomach unknotting itself a little, this news putting him at ease a little.

"It's cool. I get it, you know, some things are meant to be kept a secret for a reason."

"Too right," Blaine scoffed, scrubbing at his eyes some more with the heel of his palm.

Blaine lay awake that night, unable to get Kurt off of his mind: he was just... breath-taking. For once, Blaine was able to take his mind off of the terrible thing he had done, although in a sense it reminded him of it; thinking of a boy allowed him to forget about the fact that he had killed his father by liking boys. It really was a disgustingly sharp double-edged sword. But for now, Blaine did not pick up on this. At three in the morning, though, the brain had a tendency to not function properly, so it was probably down to that. Probably down to this feeling of fatigue, Blaine went out on a whim and picked up his phone, typing out a message to Kurt which read:

_Thanks a lot for today, Kurt. I'm glad I met you. _**- Blaine**

Just as Blaine put his cellphone back on his bedside table and returned to staring up at his ceiling, he heard the vibrations of a text coming through. _Huh? _Confusedly, he took the cellphone again and found a text from Kurt awaiting him:

_It's not a problem. And I'm glad I met you, too. We should meet up some time if you want, you know, talk and stuff. _**- Kurt**

Blaine hated to admit it, but he thought he felt a slight niggling feeling of happiness in the pit of his stomach. It didn't nearly mask the usual feeling he had, but it was a nice surprise to experience something that wasn't guilt, self-loathing, or utter sadness.

_I'd like that. I only really have one other person who knows, and I feel bad for putting it all on her. Thanks. And should I ask why you're awake at 03:00? _**- Blaine**

_Oh, okay. Same reason as you, I assume, couldn't sleep. _**- Kurt**

Blaine and Kurt exchanged several more text messages that morning before Kurt eventually drifted off to sleep (or so Blaine assumed when he didn't get a reply for a while). He then willed himself to fall under the veil of darkness which was not his friend - sleep. When he slept, Blaine saw his father, and his father was not like the father he knew, he was the father whom had all but disowned his son for being gay, he was the cold man, and he often blamed Blaine for his death and made him feel intensely guilty and horrible about himself.


End file.
